Author's Notes:

Thank you for your patience! I hope this chapter satisfy you, although, again, it is only about 3000 words long. Thank you for the favourites and alerts and the communities listing this story in them. My never-ending gratitude, especially, to those who have spared a time to review: Basill, Blackinky, Tara-Yo, Johnny-on-the-spot, StaplersBreak, Vanime18431, Pixy, lnky, queenie, l20, and Dur Bereth En Edhel. You all are great!

Now, enjoy!

- Rey

Chapter 8

Harry sat on the edge of the tea table, sulking, his tiny legs swinging with boredom. Elves were bustling silently around, checking packs, straps, provisions, cloaks, weapons… all. And what was he doing? Just sitting there. Even Gandalf praised him for sitting without any kind of resistance in his part. Odd. It was like his living with the Dursleys, in reverse and without the praise. But this was not a welcome change. He wanted to do something to occupy his mind. The silent preparation reminded him painfully of what he and his friends had done two years ago in the Burrow, before their Hocrux hunting. Memories of his past tortured him, after they had been buried for more than a month. They were just like a feast laid before a bound and gagged man; unreachable.

And he was not even a man now… or a human as people in his world knew it. His new identity was alien even to himself. How should he behave? How should he react to things? He did not miss the concerned glances the Elves threw at him, probably when they thought he was not aware. Perhaps he was too silent or sullen? Well, who was willing to sit for hours on end while others bustled around? Certainly not he. He could have tapped into the knowledge and memories Gandalf had shared with him, to see what an Elfling should be doing, but he was not feeling like doing so. In a way, he was rebelling to whoever had put him here, not inside his own imperfect (but familiar) body, and against his wishes in the first place.

Another feeling was unknowingly creeping into his heart also: dread; dread of eminent separation. Gildor had promised to accompany him to Rivendell, but he had never said anything about staying there. Then how should he, Harry, do without these Elves? Now that he was beginning to be accustomed to the band of wanderers, he was reluctant to let go of them. Perhaps he should not have relaxed his guard and let himself be attached to them like that… But he was also tired of constantly be on his guard, of being distant to people around him in fear of separation by any means.

Besides, he feared that there was no one like Wenlach anywhere else. She was somehow different from all the women he had met so far, he mused as the object of his thought glided towards him and picked him up into her arms, herself ready to go. She was so old yet so young, although her outer shell was as hard and impassive as a rock. She was a blend of a mother and big sister to him; not as lovingly-smothering as Mrs. Weasley, but also not as concerned-but-stern as Professor McGonagall. She was clumsy in the ways of child-care and a little awkward when speaking with him, but her slight fondness towards him was genuine. She let him do almost whatever he wanted to… including what he was doing now: curling his limbs around her and burying his face into the side of her neck. He was getting used to this and did not want to forsake it. It was nice to have someone whom he could view as a relative, as family, especially if that someone was always within reach.

He was getting spoiled, he supposed, but without the accompanying guilt.

That was another change that he noticed nowadays. He was getting selfish and uncaring of himself or his surroundings, to the point that he was afraid he would lose his original identity some time in the future. Why had he slid away from what Hermione had – exasperatedly – dubbed "hero complex"? Was it because here he was a nobody? Or because here he was used to getting things his way? Was it a bad development to his character?

Or was he just trying to forget his old self, his old life? That perhaps someday he would no longer be pained by his memories of being a – human, with rounded ears – wizard in a biggotive society, marked since infancy by a mad evil monster to be the latter's killer…

His heart constricted painfully on that thought. To think that he would spend until the end of the world in that form, never dying, away from his loved ones—

Harry tightened his hold around the muscular-yet-feminine body bearing him. His ears picked out the astonished murmurs of the other patrons of the inn, and he smiled grimly to himself. The worst of the blizzard had passed, indeed, but they must think that the snow outside was dreadfully high, impassible. He was not interested himself in how the group would brave the road; well, not really. After all, even if he fretted, he was carried anyway. No one had let him walk thus far. They seemed to be taking an absurd pleasure in carrying him everywhere.

It would be nice if he was let to do some adventure on the road, though… Brooding only made him mad, and contemplating how he was slowly changing scared him immensely.

Unfortunately for him, the opportunity did not arrive until quite later in the journey. By then their group had been reduced to nine people (plus Gandalf), because two runners had been dispatched to bring the news of the eminent guests to Rivendell (and, Harry suspected, to bring word about his presence in the group to the Elves of that place), and two others were positioned as scouts – to see what danger might lie ahead. Gildor asked if he would like to ride on the Elf-man's shoulders, and he instantly agreed. Wenlach seemed reluctant to relinquish him to another person, but Harry assured her with a puppy-dog look and a wide smile—

And a peck on her cheek, to both Wenlach's and Harry's surprise and embarrassment. It had been totally spontaneous, and Harry did not know what had possessed him to do so. Gratitude? Probably. But he did not want to dwell on it now. In that way, it was easier to ignore the tinkling laughter pouring around him from the Elves – no, no, the adults – as well.

Hmm. Where was Gandalf again?

Oh well. Anyway, he had something else to occupy his mind. He was riding on someone's shoulders! When was the last time he had done so? With his own father? But it had been so long ago, and he remembered nothing of his one year with his parents. Uncle Vernon had never touched him as a child too, except to punish him when he had done something wrong with the chores assigned to him.

Gildor flopped him behind the Elf-man's head, half on top of his pack, and meanwhile instructed Harry to hold on tight to his dark silken hair. It was like going riding in the amusement park for Harry. (Not that he had actually gotten the pleasure of partaking on that experience; he only knew from Hermione's descriptions.) Then the Elf-man started running, and it felt like riding a smooth-paced odd-shaped horse. The cold, crisp wind slapping his face was quite invigorating! The scenery passed by in a blur, almost like when Harry had boarded the Hogwarts Express, but now without the noise and the constant tremors and jolts. He felt like gliding through the thin air! And how did Gildor climb up the snowdrift? Then again, Eldamir (who was youngest in the group before he had come) and the silver-haired Aros, who were running some distance in front of them, left nearly no imprints upon the snow. How could it be?

Gildor suddenly ducked and swerved to the side at the same time, while keeping a firm grip on Harry's legs. Caught off guard from his musing, Harry squealed in surprised, then laughed in delight and jubilation on the sheer adrenaline rush. Gildor continued his stunts several times, and they laughed together. Wenlach summarised what they were feeling perfectly. "Silly." But the two males did not stop until much later, when they were tired of laughing.

And nobody protested, too. In fact, all the other Elves were busy trying to get Harry to laugh the same uproarious chortle, until he begged for them to stop.

He felt much lighter afterwards, free, as if the foolish play had awoken something in him, something that had been there all this time and did not want to be put to sleep again. He did not want to put a name to the feeling, but at least now he was aware that it was there. He would not shun it either. It was too good to shake off.

But if the company left him in Rivendell, even though they might return there someday—

No, he would not think of that now. All that he wanted to think about was what would they eat, and with whom he would sleep tonight. After all, the adults had not permitted him to think outside of those so far, by all their treatments of him.

Was this how it felt to be a child, though? If so…

Now he understood why Mrs. Weasley had looked at him so pityingly the first time they had met. It was not only because of his small, skinny built, but also the fact that he was parentless and there was nobody seeing him off. He had never been a child; not knowing how to be one. Gandalf's advice now really made sense to him.

A horrible sense, which suffocated him slowly but surely, worse than the one evoked by his continuous laughter beforehand.

Harry gave an inward firm shake of his head to himself. There was no use crying over spilt milk, people said, and he had better remember it. And there was nothing certain about the future too, even to the seers, so he could only hope that things would go smoothly for himself.

A small hope, but a hope nonetheless.

They took time on the road, to Harry's delight, unlike in their first leg of journey – from Woody End to Bree-land. They reached the outskirts of Rivendell – according to the returning scouts – on the third day of sedate walking and merry jogging. And by then, he had been rotated around the group as though a prize. (And perhaps he indeed was, to the children-adoring Elves.) Now he once more perched on Gildor's shoulders, but the Elf-man was much more solemn than the last time he had been in that position.

Harry had his first look of Rivendell from that vantage point, and he could not prevent a loud "Oh!" of appreciation and wonderment from escaping his gaping mouth.

An airy, welcoming building sat some distance beyond the ford they were to wade through. It was a nice blend between wooden and stone structures, grand and elegant, beyond any Mannish craftmenship. Several of the outer pillars were living trees, while the stone ones were deeply crafted or studded with small, glittering crystals as if morning dew or wave sprays. Ivy trailed along the walls and large windows, and the railings of several balconies jutting from the building were carved to the likeness of tree bark, making the edifice look much more natural than it could have been.

For the first time since his arrival in Arda, Harry appreciated his enhanced sight. Everything was laid out before him in vivid details. Moreover, the sounds of the water and the birds and the trees intoxicated him, coupled with the smell of the river and the grass, making him want to laugh and run free in the huge wild-but-beautiful-looking gardens he saw strewn around the edifice they were aiming for.

Wait. Where had that notion come from?

Then again, he might just do that once he got rid of the embarrassment of such display of childishness. After all, there was no one intent on harming him in Rivendell… right? Oh well, best to find out about it before doing or planning anything else.

There again, his paranoid side speaking… Moody would have been proud. The son of James and Lily Potter was now paranoid; well, had been, actually, since two years ago.

Ah— No! He could not think of them… yet… now.

With a barely-audible sigh, which he hoped translated in Gildor's mind as the extension of his amazement towards the sight before him, he slumped forward, cocooning the Elf-man's head with his body and limbs. Mmm. It was quite a cosy position. Why had he not thought of this before?

The rest of the company were not as relaxed as Harry, however. Even Gildor was tense, although he tried to keep the child perched around his head from noticing it. Wenlach, walking beside him, was in no better condition. On unspoken agreement, the band of Elves stalled from crossing the ford as long as they could, knowing that their little charge would be in another's hands once they crossed the watery border.

But still, that did not buy them much time. Someone was striding into the front porch of the Last Homely House. Elrond, coming to greet the guests, with an expectant look on his usually-stoic visage.

With a defeated sigh, Gildor led his company across the ford separating the inner borders of Imladris and its outer ones, straight to the awaiting lord of the land. They exchanged formal greetings, then Elrond softened up and asked in the Common Grey tongue they had been using, "How are you, my lord? It has been two long years since last you and your company came here." His tone was bland, and his face was masked by a serene expression, but Gildor knew better. The younger Elf had missed his presence, his nearest kin other than *(1)Glorfindel and Galadriel. A twinge of guilt visited his soul briefly; but only so. He could not bear to look at some of Idril's features etched on the Half-Elf's visage, as she had been like a sister to him, and now he had lost her – perhaps forever, if she and Tuor did not reach Aman as they had hoped in their *(2)voyage.

Was it selfish of him to act like this? Was it also selfish of him to wish to claim Laikanáro as his own regardless of anything?

Could he make amends? Would he?

Gildor did not realise that Elrond's eyes were now fixed curiously at the small cloaked figure perched on his shoulders, nor did he acknowledge Wenlach's sharp gaze, as the nís was trying to bring him out of his musing with stare only. He only came back to the state of awareness when a hand wrinkled by age and roughened by weather grasped his and subsequently dragged him forwards. Gildor jerked his appendage free on reflex, to the gruff chuckles of Sinderáno. "Elrond is worried that you are not feeling well, my friend. Shall we adjourn to the Hall of Fire? There you can speak with him undisturbed. You know how empty it is during the day," the Istar said, matching the dialect used probably out of respect, a note of knowledge and sympathy in his voice.

Elrond.

Gildor swivelled his head around, until his eyes landed on the said nér's. Elrond had been standing to the side, allowing the rest of Gildor's company to pass into the house. A soft concerned smile tilted up the Half-Elf's thin lips.

"Forgive me, my lord. My mind was occupied," the older Elf said, while forcing a smile to grace his own lips. "Would you permit me and my charge to freshen up before anything?"

"This land is home to any of my kin, Gildor. You do not need my permission for such small things."

Now the yearning in his voice was unmistakable, to perceptive ears. Dilemma twisted at Gildor's heart. Elrond's hope to keep his family and closest friends in sight was understandable; the Half-Elf had grown rather paranoid ever since his wife had been kidnapped and tortured by orcs near the Pass of Caradhras. But to Gildor, forsaking his wandering meant forsaking his vow that he had taken before the grave of his foster father, that he would never claim any place east of the Sundering Sea as home until the time he departed it forever. Also, he was so used to his nomadic life that he feared he would feel restless if confined to one place only for a long period of time.

Shaking his head to rid himself of his convoluted thoughts, he offered a more genuine smile to Elrond and said, "Thank you, Elrond. It warms my heart. Now shall we come in? I believe the little bird on my shoulders would love to have something down his belly." If he was to stay longer here, to appease Elrond, he felt that they had better use a more informal tone when talking to each other.

Elrond seemed to agree. Laughing, his host nodded and beckoned him to walk beside the Half-Elf. Gildor shifted Laikanáro into his arms, meanwhile, and by then he realised that the child had been staring intently at Elrond. "Is something the matter, little one?" he asked, concerned. His words attracted Elrond's attention, and soon both neri were staring at the cornered-looking Elfling in Gildor's embrace.

Laikanáro just exacerbated the situation by looking that way, he thought, although it was no fault of the child himself. Sinderáno had been very vague regarding the past of the little one, but what he had deduced from his secret meeting with Laikanáro had resulted on a grim conclution: The child had been abused by his former caretakers. But how to tell Elrond this while in the presence of the said child? He did not wish to relinquish Laikanáro too in order to speak more freely with the Half-Elf.

Wenlach solved the problem – thankfully. The nís retraced her steps from the inside of the house and silently extended her hands, asking for the child, after nodding in acknowledgement at Elrond. It was the first time since the arrival of Laikanáro in his life that Gildor delegated the task of minding the child to someone else happily.

But apparently Elrond was not happy at all with the new development to the situation. He hid it well, however; only a slight frown betrayed his feeling. Gildor ignored it at the moment.

They entered the spacious, currently-empty Hall of Fire, and chose seats before the great hearth that always blazed merrily, set into the northern wall. Neither of the two lords of the Ñoldor was willing to break the uncomfortable silence that hung between them, but neither did they wish to distance themselves from each other.

So engrossed were they in their silence, they did not notice the arrival of two more Elves in the large hall. "Elrond, I—" Glorfindel said, but then cut his words midsentence. When the grey eyes of the startled lord were upon him, he modified the question: "Are you busy, Elrond?"

The Half-Elf shook his head. "What do you need me for, Glorfindel, Erestor?" he asked, while glancing meaningfully to Gildor, who stiffened a bit.

"Well, I suppose it can wait," the golden-haired Elf said, his voice and expression thoughtful. "Right, Erestor?" His eyes flickered to the silent blue-grey-eyed Sidna standing beside him, who was smiling with amusement at the uncomfortable Gildor. Erestor nodded absently, and an open grin broke on Glorfindel's face, disconcerting Gildor even more. "May we join you, Lords, if you are just catching up with each other?"

Gildor was cornered now, literally and figuratively. Three pairs of eyes were trained on him – somber grey, bright blue, and blue-grey. They were full of concern and curiosity about him, and he had a bad feeling that an interrogation would ensue, inevitably.

But before all, he must secure a living space for Laikanáro here, in one of the safest safe havens east of the Sundering Sea. The child's care might fall to Círdan later, as Sinderáno had planned (and perhaps agreed by Laikanáro), but it would be best if he was also recognised as family – or at least friend – here. One could not be too cautious in these dark times, or have too many allies.

It turned out, though, that the situation had bested him. Glorfindel and Erestor had met the Elfling in person. Wenlach had detoured to the kitchen in the main building in search of some food for the child to eat, just as the former lord of Gondolin and Gil-galad's best friend (among the many roles he played in the deceased last High King of the Ñoldor's life) had been wandering for similar purpose. And the shocking existence of the Elfling was what he had wanted to ask Elrond about.

How ironic life could be?

Footnotes:

*(1) In my version (well, guess) of the origin of Glorfindel, he was the youngest son of Ingwë, king of the three kindreds of Elves residing in Aman. He had followed the Ñoldor in their rebellion because his close friend Elenwë went in it, accompanying her husband Turgon. When Elenwë died in the crossing of Helcaraxë, he vowed to safeguard Turgon and Idril for her. He died during the fall of Gondolin, was reborn in Aman, and went to Middle-Earth around Third Age 1000, like in the version in Lord of the Rings, together with the Wizards.

*(2) The fate of Idril and Tuor is just as vague as that of Nimrodel and Amroth. (Unless if in one of the manuscripts he was firmly claimed to have drowned.) They sailed after seeing the survivors of Gondolin to safety in Sirion near the end of First Age, because of Tuor's sea longing. No one reported that they had landed in Aman or its surrounding islands, and they did not return to Beleriand too. Chances are, they died on the way or trapped in one of the small islands because the ban of the Valar regarding the rebellion of the Ñoldor had not been lifted. (It was lifted when Eärendel and Elwing came bearing the Silmaril.)

Translation (all in Quenya):
Finderáto: Finrod's Quenya name
Laikanáro: (sharp) Green Fire (literally), Harry's Quenya name
nér: male Elf
neri: male Elves
níss: female Elf
Sinderáno: Grey Wanderer (literally), an invention of mine for the sake of this story

Additional Note: Vanime18431 brought the case of Erestor to me. I had intended to put him there, but forgot. Sorry for leaving him out! Now the mistake has been fixed, though, and I am glad of this new look. Thanks, Vanime!